


Which are you?

by Ort



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Light Angst, Mystery, have at it fools, so just here it is, there is t much to say about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:56:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ort/pseuds/Ort
Summary: “Then who am I if I am not one?  Who can I be if I am not only me.”“All and one, such as they.  You are them. They are you. The simplicity of it all is what makes it so beautiful.”“It’s not beautiful,” he cries.





	Which are you?

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. Idk man.

“Which one is this, then?”

 

“...what?”

 

“Which hand is it this time?  Which face? Which soul?”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“You do and you are; like those before you.  Those after.” It stops, lifting a foot gingerly to stare at it with black eyes.  “So which one is it this time? Or are you new?”

 

“I am not… I am the only-”

 

“You are not.  You are many.”

 

“I am me!”

 

“And so are they.  And so they were and will be.”  

 

“Please, I don’t understand.”

 

“You needn’t,” it replies and then it turns and begins to stalk away.  He follows, stumbling over the uneven ground. “You need only know that you are not one as you think you are and that the others that are and will be and perhaps won’t for long are all you, and you them.”

 

“Then who am I if I am not one?  Who can I be if I am not only me.”

 

“All and one, such as they.  You are them. They are you. The simplicity of it all is what makes it so beautiful.”

 

“It’s not beautiful,” he cries, tripping over tree roots and rocks.  It stops, pausing to look back. He steadies himself, bringing a hand to his face.  “It’s confusing and scary… and you are not helping.”

 

“Who said I was put here to help?”  It begins to walk again. “I came here of my own volition.  I came to question and to see a birth and a death and a discovery.”

 

“A birth?”

 

“Yours, of course.”

 

He stops, staring at it with incredulity and confusion.  

 

“I was born-”

 

“Now.”

 

“Nay, I was born years ago; I was born-”

 

“You came into this world when you did and how you did and now you are here and you are born, cressened anew by the sword you pulled from stone.”

 

He stares at the hilt still gripped in his hand.  The blade shines brilliantly in moonlight, as if millenia trapped in the earth has done nothing to taint its beauty.  

 

“I… what do you mean?”

 

It continues, as if no question was placed before.  

 

“A quest will come now or soon or sometime; the sword will pull you in one direction or another and maybe you meet the other - a piece of you yet to be found - or maybe you will travel alone.  And you will fight  _ him _ or maybe another and you will save  _ her _ … or perhaps she will save you.  It is funny how those thing tend to unfold.”  It comes to the edge of the treeline and stops.  He stops as well and finds himself on the precipice of a great field; a plain that stretches out before him.  The tall wild grasses sway gently in the wind. “Or maybe the pull will never catch you; perhaps you will spend your days wandering without purpose or plan.  Maybe you will settle down, find a place where you soul finds peace, only to be yanked away from it all when the call becomes too strong, or when evil returns and demands to be recognised.”  

 

He stares out at the grasses.  The sky seems to stretch endlessly; the horizon is far away, separated from him by a vast green.  He swallows; the sword is heavy in his grasp. 

 

“I am afraid.”

 

“As you should be,” it says and lays itself down on the ground.  It watches as a cloud passes over the moon, the light flashing and reflecting in its eyes.  He turns to it.

 

“Will you stay with me,” he whispers and it makes a sound like a laugh.  

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Perhaps you are meant to be mine; the other half.  A companion to have and to hold and to turn to when the road becomes too much.”  

 

It is quiet and he thinks maybe he has insulted it.  It yawns then, teeth flashing and looks at him. 

 

“Perhaps… I shall accompany you for a bit… to see what comes of you.”

 

He smiles, small and scared.  

 

“Thank you.”  He sits beside it and offers a hand. “My name is-”

 

“I know your name.”  It does not take the offered hand.  “Your name is always the same.”

 

“Oh… well then what is yours?”

 

“Why must you know?”

 

“You know mine.”

 

“Ah but you did not tell me, so why should I tell you?”

 

He huffs, a tad exasperated.     
  


“I  _ tried _ to tell you.”

 

It hums and closes its eyes, its head bobbing slightly.  There’s a chill on the breeze, but neither of them take notice.  The silence draws on, but he is comfortable to wait. Finally it turns to him.  

 

“Not now,” it says and he takes the answer, mulling it over in his head.  

 

“Someday,” he responds and it stands.  

 

“Alright,” it says and walks, disappearing into tall grass.  

 

He follows. 


End file.
